


how it is

by PikaCheeka



Category: DRAMAtical Murder (Visual Novel), DRAMAtical Murder - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Virus being nasty, kind of a first time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-23
Updated: 2016-07-23
Packaged: 2018-07-26 05:09:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7561657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PikaCheeka/pseuds/PikaCheeka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Virus sleeps in Trip's bed whenever he's away, though he doesn't know why. Sometimes he stays there even when Trip comes home. Sometimes things get heated. They aren't lovers, but sometimes they tempt fate. That's just how it is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	how it is

**Author's Note:**

> I'm working on a longish ViTri fic and this was going to be a chapter in it, but I feel like it actually stands better on its own, and I'm not sure when I'm going to get around to posting that fic (I'm writing it out of order, of course) so I figured I'd just post this as it is for now. And yes, I know I've written 5000 ViTri fics and they are all about Virus being disgusting. I promise I'll switch things up and let them properly bang for 40 pages straight eventually. And finally, thanks to my friend for the (one item) scene.

He doesn't touch him. Something about seeing Virus in his bed unexpectedly unnerves him, not because he doesn't want him there but because he does, because coming home to find that soft gentle whiteness asleep and vulnerable in the place where he touches himself is an occurrence he has always wanted. No, he doesn't touch him. He only coughs loudly, kicks the bed. "Yo, Virus. I'm home." 

If Virus is surprised, he doesn't show it, one bloodshot eye cracking open to glare up at him. Virus is like a pit viper when awoken against his will, and his tone is accusatory as opposed to welcoming. "I thought you weren’t coming back until tomorrow."

He thinks about asking why Virus is in his bed, why the scent of his cologne and his sex hangs heavily enough in the air for Trip to know that Virus slept here every night for the last three nights, that when he called the older man at 2 am the other night, those long fingers answered the phone on these sheets, but he knows that while he will receive an honest answer, it won’t be one he can understand. "I wanted to come home sooner.” After all these years, the word _home_ still tastes exciting and warm, especially when he returns to _this_. “Got the red-eye."

"Good." But he doesn't elaborate, only yawns, pink tongue curling against his crooked eyetooth, nearly knocked out so many years ago in a street fight. When Trip catches a glimpse of three of the seven gold fillings in his molars and the depth of his throat, he finds himself swallowing hard.

And so he drops it, drops the conversation as well as his overnight bag, a military issue duffle that Virus hates because of its bulkiness but is ever so useful because it doesn't leak, doesn't stain. You'd never know body parts were in there once. "Whatever. I'm taking a shower."

He turns on his heel and moves into his bathroom, kicking his boots off and shedding his clothing. Five hours of flights and layovers. It could have been worse. He could have come home to an empty bed. Still, he wants nothing more than to sleep. _Or fuck Virus_ , which is not an option as far as he can discern. But he could also have come to a neat bathroom. For all of the older man’s care in his appearance, he is not particularly careful with belongings. The cap not only off the toothpaste but missing. A damp towel still lying on the side of the bath, smelling faintly of Virus. Trip’s preferred shampoo, still on the shelf but now empty, a post-it note suggesting one of them buy more with a smiley face scribbled over the words. Virus, when camping out in his bedroom, stripping in his bathroom and sleeping in his bed, is too scatter-brained, or too deliberately clever, to hide his presence. He suddenly remembers a day last summer when they had broken into Takahashi’s office to delete something more than a little incriminating from his computer, Virus calmly unzipping his fly and pulling his cock out and rubbing himself against the trackpad, Trip watching with growing arousal and incredulousness as the other man laughed softly. _Let’s tell him I put my dick on one item in here. Just one._ He wonders if there’s one item here, one or a thousand, and groans softly as he turns the water on. Cold.

But as he stands under the water, the image of Virus in his bed persists, looming over him as he scrubs the sweat and grime of travel from his skin and the product from his hair. He sometimes wonders what would happen if he just threw Virus down and mounted him, if he’d resist or give in, if he’d scream or laugh, if he’d hurt him for it afterwards or simply offer to fuck him in return. He doesn’t want to ask and he isn’t about to try. He wonders if it is inevitable. If it will be the last thing he ever does. If it will happen the other way around first. If Virus thinks about it just as much as he does. He wonders if he should stroke himself now, and suddenly he doesn’t notice how cold the water is.

\--

He isn’t surprised when he steps back into the dimly lit room to see a familiar tousle of blonde hair on his pillow, glasses on his nightstand and pants on the floor. Underwear, too, and his eyes flicker as his mouth twitches. That _is_ a surprise.

"You're still in my bed."

"I'm comfortable."

Trip doesn't hesitate before sliding between the sheets. They've shared a bed often enough over the years, and whatever they are to one another, waking up to find their limbs tangled is hardly unusual. _Still_. He remembers the way his dick twitched when he first saw the older man in his bed tonight, revels in the knowledge that Virus is currently wearing nothing but a shirt and socks, and grins.

"You haven't used that shampoo in a while." _Chatty tonight_. It means nothing. He's chatty when he's happy, when he's anxious, when he's bored. His behaviors do not indicate his moods, but Trip has learned how to read them well enough. Happy, and something more.

"You apparently used up my favorite."

"You were too fast in there," Virus says then, as if it were a perfectly reasonable response to such a remark, and it is one for them, connected in as visceral a way as they are. Trip can feel a hand gently pressing against his back as Virus continues, the whiteness of his voice warming and calming him. "I need to finish jerking off."

The arousal dripping from his fingers, from his voice as it skates over Trip's skin, is too much, and he almost rolls over to stare at him. He hovers somewhere between surprise and satisfaction as he gropes in the darkness for a reply. "Do you always do that in my bed?"

"Usually only when you're not home."

There's too much there for him to respond to. He opens and closes his mouth once, twice, before finally shrugging. _Usually_. It explains a lot, explains the way his bed smells sometimes when he comes home from trips to the mainland, a night out, even sometimes when he comes home from the gym on days when it's too hot for Virus to go. Explains those mornings, scattered few and far between, when he woke up to find Virus looking at him strangely. Explains the comment made last year when Virus scoffed and asked if he knew that he could sleep through anything. There have been times when he was in this apartment, possibly in this very bed, while the older man huffed his pillow and jerked off. He wonders if when he presses his face to his sheets and inhales his scent, he can taste the dreams Trip carries within then, if he knows that at least once a month they have sex in this bed, if only in his mind. _Their minds_. It's now clearer than ever that he is who Virus thinks about when he touches himself.

He clenches his fist in the sheets and tightens his thighs before exhaling loudly through his nose.  Only then does he realize that Virus, as patient and polite as toxic gas filling an unventilated room, has been waiting for approval. _Don’t do it yourself._ _Spread your legs and let me fuck it out of you._ But Trip says, "Go ahead."

He doesn't turn around, only closes his eyes and listens as the older man immediately obeys. Soft noises echo behind him, satin sheets slipping underneath him and the familiar sound of skin on skin as he begins to touch himself. He is unnervingly close to Trip, bumping into his back with every jerk of his hand, his breath hot and wet, crawling up his neck as he moans. There's no reason to be this close; the bed is more than big enough, but Virus slept on his pillows while he was away and is now masturbating in his sheets while he lies there and he's certainly not about to tell him to move over.

He waits until he hears his breath hitch, a telltale sign that he is beginning to lose control, that if he were to turn around he’d see a dampness at the corners of his eyes, and deliberately pushes back hard into him. Virus does just as he expects, gasps and shudders and grabs his hip with his free hand, digs his nails in. In one fluid motion he is up against Trip, dick pressed against his backside as he begins rutting on him. Trip hums softly, the wetness of Virus' cock now bumping against his lower back, and lets his own hand brush over his crotch. Images he held in the shower come flooding back to him, but he resists the urge to grope himself and merely revels in the sensations. When he feels the elastic waistband of his briefs snap, hears Virus grunt and swear softly as the sensitive underside of his head gets caught for a moment, he snorts and snaps his hips back. The action repeats itself, the expletive groaned in his ear and the drops of precome dripping down his back, and something about hearing Virus gasp _fuck FUCK_ in his ear like that is too much for him to bear. Before Trip realizes it he has reached back to grab Virus' cheek, thrusting them together again, _again_. He bites his lip and lets his ring finger drift into the cleft of his ass, as close as he dares with the erratic motion, close enough to cop a feel of his entrance. If Virus notices, he doesn’t care, doesn’t slap or bite him. Instead, the older man's moans take on a new octave and desperation now as he keeps up the pace, open mouthed gasps touching Trip's neck.

Virus stifles a yelp when he climaxes, hips stuttering up against Trip's back several times as his dick jerks and he comes violently, fingers slipping in sweat before nails dig into his hips so hard there will be bruises in the morning. He's loud, louder than Trip expected, but this surprise buries his own groan and for that he is grateful. It isn't the first time Virus has come on him, but it's the first time it was this deliberate, this intimate, the first time they held one another's hips through an orgasm, felt how easily their pelvises moved together, and the knowledge sings and snaps through Trip's veins.

Several minutes pass before Virus yawns loudly. "Sorry, that was loud." He doesn't sound particularly sorry, not with one of those soft and satisfied laughs erupting from him.

"Not, 'sorry, I just jizzed on you after you showered'? Virus..." But he’s content. This is a mess he doesn’t mind.

"You know how it is."                                                               

He says it so calmly, succinctly, a statement bitten off before it was out of his mouth, that they both fall silent for a moment and let it lie between them, let it burrow deep into Trip's spine. As it curls around him, the whiteness of Virus, the truth of it slowly dawns on him. He does know _how_ it is, but he doesn't know _what_ or _why_ it is.

Trip is the one to break the silence. "Are you wearing my shirt?"

"Oh." It's as if he'd forgotten, glancing down at himself, tugging at the shirt with one sticky hand. "I wanted to wear a black one tonight and mine was dirty."

"Really..." Trip sometimes wonders if something isn't attached in Virus' brain, an interrupted synapse that sparks and screams in white, clouds his mind when he does certain things pertaining to Trip. Not denial but oblivion. But Trip lacks the words to say it, the opposite of Virus, who has all the words in the world but no weight behind them, because something in that skull was simply never turned on.

"Yea, I don’t do laundry when you’re away." Virus shrugs as he throws one arm over Trip's side, presses his face to his neck and damp fingers to his chest. "That's how it is."

 

 

 


End file.
